


How to Lose a Suitor

by LadyCrimsonAndBlack



Series: The Truth of the Soul [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Demon Ciel Phantomhive, F/M, Female Ciel Phantomhive, POV Outsider, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9440294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCrimsonAndBlack/pseuds/LadyCrimsonAndBlack
Summary: Lady Celia Phantomhive does not intend to get married, no matter what the society may say. Unfortunately, the young noblemen seem not to care about her wants and desires. Well, she'll just have to be more creative. She never loses a game, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

The Phantomhive Manor was a beautiful piece of architecture, perfectly accenting the wealth and affluence of its infamous owner. The flawlessly trimmed gardens, stainless glass windows gleaming in the faint sunlight, marble fountains glittering with fresh water, all of it only adding to the impressive picture of power and fortune. No one first seeing the magnificent building could remain unaffected, especially not knowing who waited inside.

Rufus Godwin gulped nervously.

He didn't want to do this. He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready. He knew it, his family knew it, even the servants back at the manor knew it. He suspected that there was a betting ring going on among the help, about whether he would survive the ordeal or not, but there was no evidence of the fact and his manservant, Edwin, refused to confirm anything. Unfortunately, judging by the faintly distressed expression on his face, the odds weren't in his favour.

His mother's cold voice cut trough his slightly hysterical musings. "Come, Rufus."

His head snapped in her direction, observing her warily. Despite her demure and unassuming appearance, dressed in a modest dark blue gown and matching coat, with greying brown hair and calm chocolate eyes, she was the true power in the Godwin household ever since his father's death two years ago. She had a sharp mind and sharper tongue, and being on the wrong end of one of her verbal lashings was a fate that even his oldest brother, the new Earl Godwin, avoided, for all the authority that he supposedly had.

He exited the carriage, making an effort to look calm and composed as best as he could, drawing on all of the previous lessons on the etiquette he loathed as a child.

The rustling of the skirts drew his attention to the woman on his left again. She was observing him carefully.

"You will behave politely and respectfully," his mother warned in a tone brooking no argument. "You will make a good impression, maybe even charm the girl a little if you play it right, and you will make sure that the engagement is successful."

Rufus nodded obediently, feeling slightly nauseous at the mention of their reason for being here.

The engagement.

Lady Celia Phantomhive, the current Countess Phantomhive, favourite of the Queen Victoria, infamous for her title as the Queen's Watchdog and her dealings in the Underworld, and, most importantly, heiress of the enormous fortune that came with her numerous titles, was still unattached despite her age of seventeen.

It was understandable not to be married at such a young age, although slightly worrying for an orphaned woman without close relatives who could manage her business, but not to have even an engagement to her name was quite a scandal in the British high society.

Naturally, many vultures came calling.

Suitors from all of the country flocked around the young Countess, hoping to find an inexperienced, easily seduced, naive girl and claim the riches that tempted them to desperate measures. Her apparent beauty hadn't helped, nor did her connections and lack of family, only drawing in the more… deviant of the nobles, enticed by the promises of vulnerable prey.

All of them failed.

Many of them were repelled by her rumoured cold and indifferent attitude, not wishing for a wife that didn't fawn over them. Even more were driven away by her refusal to leave the dealings of her company and her Underworld connected business alone, to give it to the men they saw as the more capable at performing the jobs of that nature, despite the fact that both came with the name of Phantomhive. The rare few that managed to accept all of her quirks and secure an invitation to tea at her Manor always came out as frightened husks, refusing to talk about anything happening in the place. And the deviant ones, the ones hoping to use her for other, more despicable things…

Most were dead. A rare few were in prison.

So the sad fact was that all of her suitors mysteriously stopped their efforts after several encounters with the woman, either willingly or not, and left her with only a few that were willing to risk it. After all, there were many other rich beautiful ladies ready for an engagement and none of them came with the possibility of falling into a paranoia induced insanity.

Unfortunately for Rufus, his mother was willing to risk it. Or rather, his life.

He sometimes wondered if she really loved him. Mothers are supposed to, aren't they?

He sighed heavily, walking by the older woman's side on the gravel path, approaching the doors that seemed more ominous with each step. He watched as Mother took charge, as always, climbing up the set of stairs and knocking heavily on the sturdy wood, the sound echoing trough the impressive structure.

Only a moment later the door was opened, allowing them to see a tall man in a butler uniform, his dark hair strangely cut and his reddish-brown eyes calculating and in the direct contrast with the polite smile on his lips.

The butler bowed courteously. "Lady Godwin, Lord Godwin, welcome to the Phantomhive Manor," he intoned, taking their coats and giving them to the red-haired maid. "Come, the Young Mistress is expecting you."

Rufus glanced at his mother's unimpressed face, following the man trough number of elegantly furnished corridors to the another door. The butler opened them, bowing to someone inside, presumably the young countess.

"Young Mistress, Lady Ophelia Godwin and Lord Rufus Godwin are here," he announced. Rufus idly wondered if the true power in their relationship was obvious even to the outsiders. Judging by his mother's name being announced first and thus placed as one of more importance, it was.

A cold, clear voice rang across the room. "Send them in."

Another bow, followed by the full opening of the door, and they were allowed in richly, but tastefully, decorated drawing room and seated in comfortable chairs, across from their host.

Rufus allowed himself a small, startled intake of breath as he observed his possible bride.

She was as beautiful as rumours said. He had not seen her before, despite the tea invitation which was mostly his mother's work, so he was unsure if multiple accounts of her good looks were true. But now he was convinced. She was truly lovely, with fair skin, dark hair fashionably lifted away from her face with glittering combs and sapphire eyes only more accented by her blue dress of finest materials. The only imperfection was a silken black eye-patch covering her eye – truly, a curious accessory – but he had heard that she had injured an eye in the fire that took her family.

She looked so small and delicate in her enormous armchair, non-threatening as any other lady, that all of his fears seemed to vanish in an instant. Surely such a dainty looking girl couldn't make grown men shiver in fear?! Not all of the rumours can be trusted, after all, and those must be entirely unfounded.

When a round of polite introduction was over, they proceeded to the light conversation common among the nobles over truly delicious tea and pastries. Rufus could truthfully say that he enjoyed the next half an hour, completely forgetting his previous troubles. The lady was courteous if a bit cold, and unquestionably intelligent, able to match Mother blow for blow in their verbal sparring that sometimes went over Rufus' head.

The only downside was the butler.

There was something unsettling about the man. Rufus couldn't pinpoint exactly what, but he knew that he didn't trust him and that he made him uncomfortable. The servant was always looking at him, almost staring, but never breaching the line of politeness. There was a heavy dislike in the gaze, bordering on hatred, that opposed the façade of civility on his face. And he was there the whole time, never moving from his mistress' side if not ordered to, acting more like a bodyguard than a butler.

Rufus averted his gaze.

"Lord Rufus," a calm voice caught his attention. Lady Celia was looking at him, a hint of smugness visible on her otherwise expressionless face. She had clearly came as a victor in the verbal match with his mother, if the older woman's disgruntled features were to be believed. Rufus felt his admiration for the girl rise. Nobody has ever beaten his mother. "Do you play chess?"

The question was so sudden that he was momentarily confused, unable to answer. "Chess? Yes, sometimes. My father was an avid player and he thought me everything he knew. I even managed to beat him a few times, a rare feat, everybody said," he boasted.

The Countess smirked, slightly condescending and edged with cunning. It was gone the next moment, though, in favour of a delighted smile, so he concluded that it was simply a trick of the light. "Wonderful! I haven't had a challenging opponent in a long time."

The subtle threat went over Rufus' head. "I would be delighted to play with you."

A sharp nod was his answer. "Sebastian, bring the board."

"Yes, my lady." The butler bowed gracefully and exited the room with quick, sure steps.

It took only a few minutes for everything to be set up. Lady Celia was watching him, a small smile playing across her lips. His mother was frowning.

The girl inclined her head. "White goes first."

Rufus looked down to the board and realized that, yes, he was white. He was suddenly very flustered. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly... It wouldn't be fair… You should take the white, my lady," he insisted missing the slight twitch of butler's body at the familiar address, although Celia didn't.

She smirked. "I insist."

He fidgeted nervously, crushing an impulse to disobey. It would be impolite. "If you insist," he conceded and moved a pawn.

It took him five minutes to think that the game could be challenging.

It took him seven minutes to start sweating.

It took him twelve minutes to realize that he was way over his head.

It didn't help that trough it all his mother was frowning at him in disappointment, Lady Celia was smirking at him in amusement, a sharp edge of cunning in her eye, barely even glancing at the board and the butler was alternating between looks of quiet pride aimed at the girl and sadistic glee whenever he glanced at Rufus' struggles.

Fortunately, he was saved after fifteen minutes of the game.

Unfortunately, he was saved by the explosion.

He shouted in alarm, diving behind the chair in an instinctive reaction to the danger. He fought to concentrate trough the buzzing in his head, only hearing the loud ringing in his ears and the too loud thudding of his heartbeat. He looked frantically around for his mother, noting with relief that she was in the same position as him. Then he glanced at their host, wanting to make sure that she was safe, only to stare in shock at the girl who was sipping her tea quite calmly considering the situation, framed from the behind by the beautiful window with a full view of the massive dust cloud caused by the explosion. The butler wasn't any better, still standing behind her seat protectively, looking at Rufus in mirth.

He stood up, gaping. "What is going on?!"

He was ignored.

"Sebastian, my parasol," Celia ordered, like it was the most normal request one could make while in the middle of an attack. Another explosion, smaller this time, rocked the ground.

"Yes, my lady," the butler said, producing a black lacy parasol from seemingly nowhere and handing it to the seated noblewoman.

Rufus glanced at his mother, only to be even more shocked. She was gaping too, losing her famous composure. "Parasol?! What are you going to do with a bloody parasol?!" he shouted, his voice muffled by the sound of the continuous explosions from the outside, along with gunfire and loud bangs made by something heavy being thrown at high speeds.

Again, he was ignored.

"Are Mey-Rin, Finny and Bard at their assigned positions?"

"Yes, I made sure of it earlier this afternoon."

"Excellent," the young lady took the last sip of her tea then stood up and faced the only door in the room, gripping her parasol tightly, the butler shifting silently to her side. "If they manage to breach the parameter, leave them to me, Sebastian. In the last few weeks I didn't have as much practice as I would have wanted. Except if I'm in mortal danger, of course. Then you may act."

There was a brief frown of displeasure on the butler's face before it smoothed out again. "Yes, my lady."

His mother listened in the ongoing conversation with steadily more incredulous expression. "Would you kindly explain what is going on?! Why is the Manor under the attack?" the old lady finally snapped. The sound of gunfire in the background, followed by a shrill scream, emphasized her words quite nicely, in Rufus' opinion.

Both the girl and the butler graced them with slightly disbelieving looks.

"You are aware of the work I do for the Queen, are you not?" Lady Celia asked. Both the mother and the son nodded, almost mechanically, jumping at the slightest noises from the outside. Considering most of these noises were the result of a rather violent confrontation, Rufus felt they could be forgiven for their skittishness. "Then you must be aware that I have a lot of enemies," she continued, waiting for another round of nodding. "This happens when those enemies get overconfident and decide to eliminate me by attacking me at my home."

It didn't take long for his mother to connect the dots. "This happened before?!"

"Yes, quite a number of times already. Truthfully, it's getting somewhat boring. It's always a frontal attack with no thought whatsoever towards tactics. Really, no one has any imagination these days."

The guests stared, stunned by the nonchalant attitude.

The butler smirked confidently. "There is no need to worry. Our defences are quite enough to repel most of the attackers. Even if they manage to come to this room, you will have the Young Mistress and myself to defend you."

"And what good are you two going to be without any weapons?" Rufus demanded, more frightened with each passing second. Their hosts' unconcerned behaviour didn't help.

The butler tilted his head like he was hearing something. His smirk widened. "You will see in a few seconds," he declared, turning around to face his employer. "My lady, we have two incoming."

A composed nod and cold, cutting smirk were his only answers.

A moment later the door burst open, allowing them to see a pair of hulking, muscled men, one carrying a still smoking gun with the other brandishing a wicked-looking knife.

Rufus didn't even have a chance to let out a shout of alarm before the young lady charged at the enemies, brandishing only her parasol. To his eternal surprise the tip of the parasol managed to sink deeply into the torso of the first man, catching him unaware. Lady Celia twisted gracefully, ducking under the wild attack by the blade – courtesy of the other man – and slashed her weapon across his throat, killing him instantly.

They slumped to the floor, dead.

She stood calmly amidst the carnage, not paying any attention to the two cooling bodies at her feet. Rufus noticed faintly that the hem of her dress was being soaked in the blood that coated the floor and that her heeled boots were leaving bloody prints as she walked towards her butler.

The black-clad man smiled. She returned it with a cold smirk, handing him her now bloody parasol. Rufus finally realized that the tip was made of sharpened metal, dangerous enough to cut flesh and maybe even bone. "Sebastian, make sure that no stains are left on the fabric. This one is my favourite, after all."

"Yes, my lady," the butler bowed again. There was no mistaking the glimmer of pride in his eyes. "If I may say so, may lady, your form was perfect today. You did a splendid yob."

The countess inclined her head in acknowledgement and then turned towards her guests. "Are you quite all right?"

They nodded dumbly. Lady Celia opened her mouth to continue her line of questioning but was interrupted by the loud banging noise from the entrance and whirled around to face the new danger with a faint frown tugging at her lips. Rufus noticed, relieved, that the three servants from before entered instead of more enemies.

Well, relieved, until he noticed their bloodied and ripped clothes and smell of sooth and gunpowder that followed them.

The tall, blond-haired man smiled around the cigarette in his mouth, cocking a rifle across his shoulder. "We got them all!"

His mother seemed to have enough. She fainted.

…

Sebastian stood behind the Young Mistress as she observed their guests leaving from the grounds of the Manor as fast as they could without looking like they were escaping. Her lips were twisted into a small, wicked smirk, while her eye portrayed the sadistic glee she felt at the sight of frightened nobles.

The demon was so proud of her. She was incredibly ruthless when it came to getting rid of her numerous suitors.

"I must admit that the attack was a nice touch, Young Mistress," he said.

She turned around, levelling him with an amused look. She was perfectly aware that he enjoyed her mental games with her admirers as much as she did, maybe even more. He certainly disliked them more.

"I simply used convenient tools at my disposal. I must thank you for the tip, though. Without it, we wouldn't have been able to crush the Italians," she admitted, inclining his head.

Sebastian bowed, a small smile playing on his lips. "I was merely doing my duty as a butler of Phantomhive household. If it means gathering information about threats to the said household, I'm ready to do it."

She nodded regally, amusement dancing in her eye. "That you did," she said and turned away from him, heading to her study. "You should start dinner preparations now, before Bard tries to cook."

"Yes, _my_ lady," he said, and if there was an undercurrent of possessiveness in his otherwise even tone, neither of them commented on it.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time they actually killed one of her suitors, Lady Celia Phantomhive was fifteen years old.

By that time Celia was truly sick and tired of constant unsuccessful attempts at catching – and holding – her attention. It started innocuously enough, with a number of expensive and luxurious gifts and requests for dance a few rare times that she decided to socialize, when she was newly orphaned and seemingly vulnerable. But as the time passed and she aged and became lovelier with every passing year, the number of admirers rose, together with increasingly inconvenient ways they expressed their interest. It wasn't uncommon to find one young nobleman or other visiting her manor at the teatime or sending tickets to various theatre performances and operas. Public outings became almost unbearable thanks to the fact that men tended to meet her at oddest places and always 'politely' insist to be the one to escort her around the city. And less said about balls, the better.

Ironically enough, Sebastian became her saving grace at times like that.

With his usual cunning efficiency, he became a veritable expert at getting rid of her various suitors politely and without any hurt sensibilities, sometimes even making them think that leaving her alone was their idea all along.

In Celia's opinion it was a work of art. Not that she would ever admit that to the demon – or anyone else for that matter – not even under the greatest torture. He was smug enough as it is.

However, the constant, unbearable crowding left her with immense loathing toward social functions, even more than before if that was possible. She became a hermit for all intents and purposes, only ever going out when needed for the good of the household or when the Queen came calling. And Sebastian always, always came with her.

And then Lizzy decided to host a ball.

Celia, for all her apparent iciness toward her cousin, didn't like to deny her anything. And she didn't dare to deny Aunt Francis. That path led to early death, demon butler or no.

...So.

She had to actually attend a ball.

And judging by her previous encounters with formal gatherings, it will be a disaster of astronomic proportions.

…

Celia exited the carriage in front of Midford London house, clad in her nicest dress of dark blue silk and black lace, her hair braided away from her face and clipped on her head with numerous bejewelled pins and her stomach ready to drop. She steadied herself on uneven ground, mentally cursing her high-heeled boots, but taking care to keep her face impassive. It wouldn't do for her to let everyone see her discomfort.

"Are you alright, my lady?" Of course, Sebastian already noticed. He always seemed to notice anything concerning her and enjoyed antagonizing her later with little titbits he collected, all in his almost painfully polite and courteous way so it was practically impossible to accuse him of anything. Not that it ever stopped her from trying.

"Quite alright, Sebastian. Now hurry! The sooner I meet with Lizzy and Aunt Francis the sooner this will be over."

"Yes, my lady. Although I sincerely doubt that it will be that easy. Your experiences with formal gatherings so far certainly claim otherwise," he said, falling into his place at her side and a step or two behind her, shadowing her while she walked to the entrance, both of them ignoring the looks they received from other latecomers.

Celia fought the urge to agree with him and thankfully succeeded thanks to the long years of practice.

They entered the lavish mansion trying to catch as little attention as possible, which was quite hard considering both of their reputations. Everybody knew who the Queen of the Underworld was, and her loyal butler, her constant shadow, wasn't any less noticeable. Both of them had been a source of much gossip for years now, their obviously 'close' relationship being quite uncommon in the circles of aristocracy. Most of them assumed, and rightly so, that the demon was her bodyguard, but few of the more irritating ones – curiously consisting of unwed young ladies seeking to mar her reputation – claimed that they were having an illicit affair.

Both of them took their revenge at such rumours individually and then they had a lot of fun comparing the results.

Naturally, they attracted attention wherever they went.

"Celia, you came! And you are wearing such a cute dress!" the exuberant voice of Elizabeth Midford caused the very few eyes that weren't trained in their direction to observe them with frightening intensity.

Celia stifled a sigh and endured Lizzy's hug without much protest, utterly used to such treatment after all these years. Sometimes, when she was in a good enough mood, she would even return it, but today she just left her arms to flap uselessly at her sides to demonstrate her displeasure in a way that even Francis could find no fault in.

And speaking of the devil...

The much feared voice of her formidable Aunt thankfully brought her cousin back to the reality. "Elizabeth, do cease acting in such an unbecoming manner and allow me to greet my niece."

The beautiful blonde retracted her hands and stepped back to her mother's side, her pretty pink dress rustling with every movement. "Yes, Mother."

The woman nodded, a movement as regal as the rest of her. "Celia, you look as proper as ever, I'm glad to say. And, Sebastian," the scrutinising look she graced him with would have been deemed immoral on any other lady, especially considering the handsome visage of the butler, "still indecent, I see. You should really follow Tanaka's example more closely in the future."

The demon bowed. "Your Ladyship, I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm sure you don't," she allowed, her doubt clear in her voice, before turning on Celia again. "The refreshments are in the far corner if you wish them. We shall leave you to the party. There are still guests to greet."

Celia nodded appreciatively, and hurried in the direction of drinks, glad for the small reprieve from her boisterous cousin.

So far, there weren't any complications.

She could only hope it stayed that way.

…

The trouble found her only an hour later.

She was alone in one of the smaller corridors, having claimed the need for the fresh air as a means of a distraction and searched for the respite from the ball. The ballroom was too crowded to be comfortable. The stale air and the smell of perfume that caused a headache, and too much people in one place triggering the hard-won instincts that kept her alive in her numerous forays to the more disreputable parts of London, all of it forced her to look for a moment of piece.

So naturally, she was attacked.

Meaty hands grabbed her from behind, making her flinch and suppress a shriek, and turned her over so she was facing her assailant. She was pushed forcefully into the wall, the impact driving all of the air from her lungs, and her head hit the stone hard, leaving her slightly dazed.

She focused her eyes on her attacker, coming face to face with a small, portly man dressed in finery, obviously guest at the ball, grinning at her with his brown moustache twitching violently. He was completely bald, his head shining like it was polished and his small beady eyes were looking at her hungrily.

She felt the first stirrings of panic in her belly and clamped down violently on the urge to scream. The music from the ballroom was too loud along with the steady hum of the chattering guests. Nobody would hear her if she tried, not even Sebastian with his inhuman senses, and she would only make her fear obvious.

His grin widened. "Well, well, well, isn't it Lady Phantomhive. Not so high and mighty without your bodyguard to save you, are you?" His hand dipped to her waist and she tensed gritting her teeth.

_They were touching her without her permission, telling her how beautiful she was when she was scared and how they will hurt her and kill her and why won't she cry they would like to see her cry it would be so so pretty, wouldn't it on such a lovely girl..._

_And.._

No! She wrenched herself from the flashback with iron will that let her survive the most awful things one could do to a child with her mind relatively intact. The tremendous control of her emotions that helped her overcome the horrors that plagued her dreams night after night for years helped her to overcome the instinctive terror she felt whenever a man laid his hands at her, however innocent the gesture may seem.

She was not ten years old any more, she assured herself. Those men were dead, all of them. Slaughtered by Sebastian at her orders, and there was so much blood…

She felt the macabre grin settle on her face at the reminder, momentarily stunning the man holding her with its sheer ferociousness. She had made it alive and almost intact when she was ten. She can certainly do so again.

Celia cocked her head in a mock curiosity. "And who are you again?" she asked, mostly to stall for time, but partially to anger him. She knew who he was, of course, she had only met him and hour ago. And while she may not have been interested in his company and almost ignored him, her superior memory would never allow her to forget something so fast, no matter how insignificant she deemed it.

George Adler gaped at her, the very picture of stunned fury. "You… You don't remember me?! You arrogant little wench don't remember me?!"

He started to shake her violently, his grip tightening enough to leave bruises, and she once again hit her head on the hard wall behind her. She tried to ignore the stars in her vision, her manicured hands clawing uselessly at his flesh. He was too far gone, too angry to register when she drew blood in her attempts to free herself.

"You stupid little bitch! I'll show you what happens when you forget me! You might even like it. I'm sure I will, you're such a pretty little girl after all." His hands started to dip lower and lower and she had to force herself not to whimper, not to let him see her fear.

_You're such a pretty little girl, they always told her, just like her mother used to, but mother was not there she was dead and the men hurt her and beat her and she wouldn't cry she was Celia Phantomhive and she wouldn't cry she'll live and she'll get strong and she'll kill them all_

_But it hurts so so much…_

The pain in her throat brought her back, her frightened sapphire orb focusing at the hand wrapped around her neck.

She was Celia Phantomhive, she reminded herself, the panic making it hard to think. She is strong and she'll kill him.

His other hand was now lifting her dress, showing her boots and legs for all the world to see. Celia resumed her struggles, her hands clawing at his skin, the blood dripping from the sharp nails, trying to get to his eyes. But his arms were longer and she was at disadvantage, no matter the training Sebastian put her through at daily basis. Adler was bigger and stronger, and she was already pinned to the wall, without any weapons at hand, her movements constricted by the heavy skirts and the corset.

She felt his hand on her flesh, touching her legs virtually with no fabric between them, and she tried to kick him, to hurt him, but he restrained her with ease.

_Nobody can help her mummy is dead daddy is dead Tanaka is gone the house burned there is nobody who'll miss her look for her cry for her…_

_And they still touch her hurt her say that they'll kill her soon sacrifice her to summon a demon and then they'll have power and riches and women all because of a demon…_

Demon…

She buried her nails in his skin as deep as she could, almost breaking them with the force she used. His yelp was all the distraction she needed.

She reached to her face and removed the eye-patch.

"Sebastian, come."

She grinned when the shadows engulfed them.

…

Demons rarely hated.

Most people would disagree, Sebastian knew, because most people were idiots. They claimed that God is a being of love, and compassion, and all that is good, so surely demons, as beings made to be opposite of God, would also be beings of hate.

Most people also forget that the opposite of love was indifference.

To feel true, burning hatred, the one that could consume you, that caused you to hurt, and maim, and kill without question about morality, you have to care about something first. You must consider something worth of your feelings, of the effort you put in them, no matter how small it may be, how insignificant it may seem. It was a form of acknowledgement, negative one, yes, but acknowledgement nonetheless.

Demons didn't care. They were indifferent.

Sebastian surprised even himself when he felt the all-consuming hatred for one George Adler.

When he melted from the shadows at the Young Mistress' call, he never expected the sight that greeted him. Celia, steady, strong Celia, was in some men's arms, clawing and fighting, clearly frightened but with the same grim defiance and cold viciousness that first made him accept the contract.

He noted the bruises on her neck, the matted blood in her hair, her chipped nails and Adler's hand on her leg, and stilled in absolute fury.

Celia Phantomhive was _his_.

She had been his when she was ten and accepted the contract. She had been his when she trusted him to hold her after the nightmares, the only man that was still allowed to touch her. She had been his when he refused her soul even after his part of the bargain was completed, because she was just so entertaining and amusing and he hadn't had so much fun for centuries.

And that man was touching her. And what was worse, he was touching her without her permission.

For the first time in millennia he acted without thinking, moving faster than the human eye could see. The swine of the man was flying across the corridor before crashing painfully in the wall the very next moment, falling unconscious.

Young Mistress slid to the floor, her skirts flaring around her, graceful even in the situation like this. She didn't flinch, she didn't cry out, she didn't even embrace herself like women were wont to do when they were distressed, she just stared at the man with utter loathing written across her lovely face.

He approached her carefully. He knew enough about humans to know that they could be skittish in situations like this.

Naturally, Celia proved herself to be better than the other pitiful worms yet again.

"Sebastian, help me up," her voice was steady, calm, but there was a tinge of something frail there, something that demon recognized from the first few months of their time together.

"Yes, my lady;" he murmured, snaking his hand around her waist, his touch just a bit possessive. She leaned into him as he helped her stand and didn't protest when he refused to let her go when she steadied herself.

"I want to go home now, Sebastian. I think that this was quite enough for the night."

"Yes, my lady," he said, and then hesitated for a moment. Really this woman, making a demon worry about her feelings… "What about the man, my lady?" The tone he used made it rather obvious what he wanted to do to him.

The girl tilted her head, gazing at the slumped form of her attacker, looking eerily like one of those porcelain dolls that are so popular in these times. Then a smile stretched her lips, slightly feral and entirely vicious, reminding Sebastian of some of the female demons that he met in his long, long life.

And wasn't that a delicious thought…

"I want him dead and gone," she announced and then looked him in the eyes, both of hers uncovered. She looked more striking than ever, bloodied, bruised and with her teeth bared threateningly. "And, Sebastian, make it hurt."

His smile matched hers perfectly. "Yes, my lady."

…

George Adler woke to a stifling dark and glowing, fuchsia eyes.

The Phantomhive butler greeted him with a grin. "Finally awake, I see. We are going to have so much fun."

George started to scream.

He won't stop for a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

He wanted her.

More specifically, he wanted her soul.

Luvart was an old demon. Maybe not one of the strongest, or the most powerful, or even the most intelligent and cunning, but he was older than most. He had seen Heaven in all of its immortal glory, he had fought on the side of the Host before the Fall, he had sung with angels and archangels and heard the Word from the God himself. He had fell with his comrades in the deepest reaches of Hell and he has seen – and survived – worst of the tortures, the mightiest kingdoms and empires and the most impressive and intriguing of humans in long, long years he walked on this Earth.

He has seen many come and go, peaceful deaths and ones so gruesome that only a demon could come out of the experience with his sanity unscathed. He has seen countless souls departing this world and he was the cause for quite the number of them. He had gorged himself on souls until he was sated for the decades to come, he had tasted the most delicious of souls after cultivating them for years.

He had seen, and tried, and done everything.

And yet…

And yet, he wanted her soul.

Luvart was not impulsive. He has never been, not like some of the other demons who saw something they wanted and took it, not caring about the consequences. He was smart, and thoughtful – a planer. He did not act on his wants and desires without considering the outcomes first. He hadn't in millennia now.

He almost lost control in the crowded, rainy street of London today.

Her soul was… exceptional. It was dark, oh so dark, tainted, and shredded and broken, a soul of someone who had lived through the most despicable things the humanity had to offer and came out alive, but not whole, never whole. But there was brightness in it too, a light that only ever showed in souls of inherently good people, of those that were meant for great, miraculous, but, most importantly, righteous acts.

It was the ultimate paradox, her soul. A soul of an honestly, naturally virtuous person corrupted by her own sins and dark deeds, by her own conscious choices.

It was intoxicating.

The only thing stopping him from consuming it then and there, from taking what he so desperately desired without a thought was the contamination of the Faustian Contract on her soul.

She was already spoken for.

And not just spoken for, no, she was spoken for by a very powerful, very old demon. The claim he could feel on her soul, the sheer possessivness of the Contract was simply staggering, if only slightly understandable, considering the sheer quality of the meal one could get from her.

What confused him, truly and completely baffled him, was that she still had the soul to speak of.

The Contract was completed, at least on the demon's part. Luvart had enough experience to feel the subtle differences in the mark and he knew that she should have already been dead, that her soul should have been consumed years ago. That the demon who had the right to do so, decided to spare her…

Another thing that intrigued him.

He watched her inconspicuously from across the street as she went on her business, ignoring everything and everyone around her with the practised ease of an aristocrat. She did not notice him, she did not even look in his direction and that caused something deep in his chest to constrict.

Here he was paying attention to a lowly mortal, and she did not even spare him a glance!

He knew it was irrational. Deep inside his mind, he realised intellectually that she did not have his senses nor the necessary instincts to spot a demon in a crowd, but the feel, the almost-but-not-quite smell of her soul muddled his thoughts until only the feelings were left. The desire, the need, the sheer hunger he had for her soul overwhelmed him until he found himself taking a step towards her without even realizing.

The sight of the demon stopped him.

He came with the carriage for the young woman, dressed in an impeccable butler uniform, bowing courteously if a bit more gracefully than a normal human would be able to and offering her a helping hand to climb in her carriage, all the while never drawing more than necessary attention on himself.

But Luvart could feel him, the tremendous aura of power and darkness that pulsed along with a phantom heartbeat – because, surely he didn't have one – and the subtle flickering of the air around him, invisible to the human eye, but clear to any demon, that signified far larger, stronger being restrained in the fragile form of a man.

He was powerful. And he had already laid a claim.

Luvart shuffled hesitantly, the movement almost unheard of for a demon, but somehow enough to draw the attention of the powerful being across the street.

The girl with the exceptional soul was already inside the carriage, and while the butler started to climb in as well, he turned his head just so, and met Luvart's gaze unflinchingly.

Fuchsia eyes flashed and the demon disappeared from view, shutting the door with a bang that carried all the way to him.

Luvart shuddered.

He recognized him, of course he did. There was only one demon with those eyes and that power.

Luvart was in so much trouble.

…

He followed them.

He couldn't help it, he really couldn't. That soul called to him, the sweetest of siren songs to his senses. He tried to resist, tried to go out of town, out of country, in the Pit itself if it meant not facing the demon butler, but he was unable to stop himself. He pursued the carriage as swiftly as he dared, only a shadow on the path, not disturbing a leaf or a twig, until they reached the large manor in the countryside.

It was magnificent, Luvart supposed, for a piece of human architecture, but it couldn't compare to the dark fortresses and castles of Hell or the airy, light palaces in Heaven. But for a mortal it was suitably impressive and spoke of the wealth of the girl whose soul he wanted.

He settled himself just at the edge of the garden, hidden from view by the trees and plants that grew there, able to freely observe the happenings of the household. He did not see much of the mistress of the house, although he could feel her soul even here, but he did see three servants that seemed too incompetent to work for such an obviously powerful person.

And he saw the demon butler.

He was everywhere, fixing the mistakes of idiots that were supposed to take care of the manor, running on errands for the young noble and even feeding some stray cats in the garden, of all things.

He never noticed him.

Luvart wondered if he should be worried or not.

He stood there, motionless with inhuman patience, for hours, never moving a muscle except from his eyes that flitted from side to side, trying to commit every detail to his memory, until the night fell and no mortal would have been able to see anything in the moonless dark that covered the area. He waited until the last light was extinguished inside the manor and then moved.

He took a step toward the building.

And then stopped, hearing the rustle behind him, and a pulse of familiar dark power.

"Hello, Luvart," a deep voice cut through the silence of the night, making him whirl on his heel, a movement inhumanly fast.

"Hello, Malphas," he greeted, if only to buy himself some time to observe the other demon. He did not look the same as the last time he saw him – some five hundred years ago – with longer, darker hair and leaner build, but his eyes were unmistakeable. Two glowing fuchsia orbs settled on him with predatory intensity and Luvart knew that he was not welcome, no matter the thousands of years of companionship.

Such was the 'friendship' among their kind.

Malphas stalked closer, the movements distinctly feline in their smooth grace. "It's Sebastian these days actually."

Luvart tilted his head, taking an almost unnoticeable step backwards, his back against the rough bark of the tree. "And you prefer it, I suppose," he guessed. Malphas has never particularly cared what he was called, so for him to protest was unusual, to say the least.

The butler inclined his head. "Indeed, I have grown fond of it."

"It suits you well," the weaker demons said to appease him.

They fell into a silence, not the comfortable one, but one filled with unasked questions and unheard answers.

Luvart broke it reluctantly. "You did not took her soul."

Malphas glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "No."

It seems that he would actually have to ask the question. He always tried to avoid it; it gave the power to your conversational partner and Malphas knew it. "Why?"

A quick smirk and a flash of fuchsia preceded the answer. "She is intriguing."

Luvart stared, honestly surprised. That was… new. The only things that the other demon ever found intriguing were cats and magic, and both of those were somewhat acceptable after endless years in Hell. But to find a human, a mortal, intriguing…

He didn't voice his thoughts. He didn't dare. "Her soul is extraordinary," he stated instead, looking for more information.

"It is," Malphas confirmed, stepping closer still, a smirk now fully visible on his face. "But she is even more so."

It took Luvart an embarrassingly long moment to realize what his companion was implying. "You are Turning her," he breathed out, his voice little awed.

Malphas was looking distinctly smug, and rightly so. "Yes."

It was rare to see a new demon. Even rarer still to meet a Turned one. Most of them were there from the beginning, from before the Fall. They were angels once, both great and lesser, but they rebelled with Lucifer and became what they were now. They were the first.

Then came the corrupted souls of the dead. There are even more of them then the Fallen, all of them broken and repaired and broken again from the tortures of the Pit. Truthfully, they could barely qualify as demons at all, so weak and damaged they were. Only a select few were able to walk on Earth without fading, but they rarely stayed Above.

And then there were the Turned. It was possible to turn a human into a demon, Lilith was one, after all. And they were often powerful or ruthless or cunning enough to immerse themselves in the higher echelons of Hell, their twisted human imagination giving them a much needed edge in using their immortal powers. Luvart had seen a Turned torture a Fallen until he was pleading and beginning for respite, for death, all the while using a method the mortal worms had invented. Every denizen of the Pit knew to be careful around them fast, or they ended twisted and broken in both mind and body.

But they were rare.

The conditions a man has to meet to even qualify to be Turned were numerous and complicated, and even rarer still was that a demon would find a suitable human. For example, the person cannot be a sociopath or a psychopath. They don't have or understand feelings, thus they don't know what they are doing wrong. A candidate must be completely aware that he or she is sinning, that they are committing a crime against both God and morality without a good enough reason. It is not enough to kill someone to protect friends and family, to kill in a war or on the battlefield, it simply isn't sufficient. You have to be willing to kill for your own interests, for revenge or money or for the sheer pleasure of it. And you must be aware that it's wrong and against every law that exist, both moral and written. And you must do it anyway.

It was uncommon to find a human who not only accepted his mistakes, his crimes against nature, but actually revelled in them.

It seems that Malphas did.

"How long?" Luvart asked, because a new soldier for Hell was big enough news to ignore his distaste and actually form it like a question.

Malphas' smile had entirely too much teeth to be polite. "I have begun two and a half years ago. I have two more left."

Luvart released the breath he didn't know he was holding. "That soon."

"Yes, that soon," the dark-haired demon confirmed before his demeanour suddenly changed. He straightened and stepped closer to Luvart, the dark, intoxicating power bubbling to the surface. Luvart noticed with unease that the butler's human body was taller than his, and, while he knew that it didn't really matter, it didn't stop his instincts from acting up. "I want you to go away," it may have been worded as a simple wish, but both of them were aware that it was a command.

Luvart tried to oppose it anyway. "But..."

Malphas stepped closer still. Luvart could see the faint outline of wings at his back. "You will go away and you will not come back. And you will certainly tell no one of what you saw here."

Luvart swallowed. "Yes, Malphas."

"It's Sebastian," the voice was curt, cutting

"Yes, Sebastian."

…

He came back the next day. And the day after that. And the day after.

He didn't know why. He tried not to. But his body wouldn't listen and he would always find some excuse to be just in that part of the countryside, wanting to be closer to the magnificent soul, to smell it, to feel it.

To devour it.

He didn't know where Malphas was. He didn't see him. Not once. The other demon didn't come to confront him again and Luvart didn't know if it was because of genuine ignorance of his activities or some kind of twisted amusement that only the greater demons would understand.

He didn't care, truth be said.

He wanted that soul.

And since Malphas wasn't there to guard it, he will take it.

…

He entered the house on the sixth night.

It was pathetically easy to sneak into the Countess' bedroom, far easier than he would have expected from the house under Malphas' protection. But he didn't question, didn't want to question it as he soundlessly entered the chambers and his gaze settled on the small figure lying on the bed.

He supposed that she was attractive by the human standards, with her pale face and dark hair, but Luvart didn't care about that. No, what he did care about was her soul, bright and alive and dark and powerful at the same time, only a few steps away from him. He approached, cautiousness forgotten in face of a sudden hunger.

He stepped on a squeaky floorboard.

The next instant there was a small pistol pointed at his head, a pale hand keeping it steady. The girl's face was emotionless, a mask, and only slight traces of sleep remained around her eyes.

"Who are you? What do you want?" the question was quite calm for someone whose bedroom had just been invaded. Weren't human women supposed to go in hysterics when their chambers were broken into? He was reasonably sure that was the case in this time period.

"I..." he hesitated not knowing what to say. She wasn't supposed to wake up!

He met her eyes with his gaze. The only visible one of hers widened as she stared at the unnatural, glowing golden-yellow orbs.

She reached with her free hand and, before he could stop her, yanked her eye-patch away. "Sebastian, come."

The shadows in the room thickened and Luvart retreaded towards the window, ready to run. He was not ready to face Malphas. The other demon was one of the strongest, one of the most powerful, and, while Luvart was smart, he was not even close to the level of intelligence the butler possessed.

His escape was stopped by a strong hand gripping his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises and pinning him to a wall with a tight grip against his throat. Fuchsia eyes glared down at him, framed by the dark fringe on pale face. Luvart swallowed heavily.

The girl spoke first. "He is a demon, is he not?" She still did not sound the least bit alarmed, and had actually relaxed her stance a little, the pistol resting comfortably in her lap.

Malphas didn't look away from his face as he answered. "Yes, my lady."

"And he's here for my soul, isn't he?"

The butler steadfastly ignored Luvart's frantic shaking of the head. "Yes, my lady."

The girl sighed, long-sufferingly and not at all frightened by the situation. "You may kill him then," she said before turning around and settling beneath her covers again, the pistol stored carefully in it's place under the pillow.

Malphas' grin was a thing of horror. "Thank you, my lady."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose Malphas as Sebastian's real name because I wanted a powerful demon who would fit the characteristics we saw in the manga and anime and this was the only one that was associated with crows. He is also said to turn on those who offered him blood sacrifices so I thought it would fit nicely with the way Celia and Sebastian met.


	4. Chapter 4

"You are doing something to me," Celia accused him once while he was in the middle of pinning her hair before an important social gathering. Usually, it would have been a maidservant's job, but Celia was smart and knew better than to let Mey-Rin anywhere near the sharp pins so it became Sebastian's duty early on.

"Oh?" the demon's voice was light and unconcerned, but Celia noticed the slight faltering of his hands as he braided her hair. It was quick and almost undetectable, but she knew, she felt it. She shouldn't have been able to, but she felt it. Things of similar nature happened with increasing frequency for the past few months.

So…

"Do not play obtuse, Sebastian! You are doing something to me, are you not?" she snapped, at the end of her patience. She had began noticing strange things about her months and months ago, but she hadn't been sure. And then she debated if she should tell him something, if she should admit her uncertainty to a demon who would gleefully take advantage of it no matter how fond of her he may or may not be.

Sebastian pinned the last lock of dark hair with a silver pin and dropped his hand to rest on the pale skin of her bare shoulder, the black lace barely covering it. "And what does the Young Mistress think I am doing? And why, if I may ask?"

"I noticed a while ago that I'm getting stronger. Faster. My senses are sharper," she tried to meet his eyes in the antique mirror, both of hers uncovered, but he seemed to be transfixed by the back of her neck. "And I haven't had an asthma attack in a year, not even when you let those cats of yours in the Manor." Her eyes cautiously trailed down to the appendage gripping her shoulder. "So, what are you doing to me?"

The grip on her shoulder tightened and she stiffened. "I am making you better," Sebastian said, his deep voice gaining an enticing, velvet-like quality, the same tone she had witnessed him use time and time again to seduce women for anything he wanted, anything they were able to give. "Powerful." His fingers trailed around her upper back, teasing her other shoulder and creeping up her neck as he circled her, every move filled with predatory grace. And, although she knew intellectually that his skin was cold – he did not have circulation or heartbeat, after all – the hand left the searing trail in its wake. "Immortal." Long digits gripped her chin tightly, forcing her sapphire orbs to connect with his burning fuchsia eyes. "Beautiful," the last word was breathed out, their faces so close now that she could feel the warm breath and smell mint and ice and embers on it.

Celia suppressed a shiver.

"Immortal," she wondered aloud, and watched as the demon smirked in satisfaction when her eyes widened in realization. "You are making me like you. You are turning me into a demon."

He took a small step back and his power receded, seductive and intoxicating still – and since when could she even feel it?! - but not overwhelming any more. "Yes."

"But… why?" For all of her cleverness, all of her smarts and cunning and intelligence, she simply couldn't find an answer. Why would he care? He was a demon.

"You are interesting, my lady," he answered. "I find myself very entertained by your antics every day and you do not bore me. And I am of the opinion that you would make a magnificent demon."

"But you do not love me," she said, little desperately. Celia had always known that he did not really care for her, that his loyalty was only to the Contract and she took comfort in that fact for nine years now. People could betray other people, she knew, but they could not betray a magical contract. "Yet you say you want me for the eternity." Because that was what he was offering. An eternity as an immortal demon. With him.

He was practically proposing her, she thought almost, but not quite, hysterically.

"No, I do not," he confirmed with brutal honesty, but continued on before she could exhale in relief. "But I do care for you, I think. A little. Probably," he said and tilted his head in a purely feline motion. "It is hard to tell sometimes. I do not understand human emotions. But I do know that I will never love you, Young Mistress. I also know that you are as incapable of love as I am. We are the same in that aspect. And that is what makes it safe," the demon concluded. "No messy human feelings, no useless moral sensitivity or regret. Only amusement, enjoyment and the sheer pleasure of living. You will like it, I should think."

And the thought was tempting, Celia realized. The amount of power she could amass, the fortune she could collect, the games she could play. She did not think that she will ever get bored, not for a long time at least. But… "I do not want to spend the eternity with you," she said. It was true. She depended on him now that she was human, but if she were a demon… She supposed that she found his personality agreeable and she had always known that he was attractive, but the thought of chaining herself to one being for millennias went against everything she stood for.

"Nor I with you," he agreed. "But I find that it is easier for immortals to have companions that they can amuse themselves with every few decades or centuries. And you are currently my amusement." She frowned at him and he smirked. "Do not take offence, my lady. You are the best amusement I have had as long as I remember. Besides," Sebastian continued, his smirk widening. "You belong to me. I am reluctant to let you go just yet and human lives are so short and fragile."

She straightened immediately, displeased. "I do not belong to you, Sebastian."

"Of course you do. You have my mark," he said and reached with his hand to caress the skin around her eye. She flinched away from him. "And I belong to you." He removed the glove concealing his own mark, offering it for inspection.

She took a deep breath to calm down and consider her options. He waited patiently.

In the end it was an easy choice.

"How long until the transition is complete?"

Sebastian's smirk became an outright grin, showing a line of pearly white teeth. "Soon, my lady. You just need a little push."

…

Richard Lovelace let loose a breath he did not know he was holding.

She was beautiful and entrancing and anything he would ever want in a woman. And she was a woman now, he realized.

He remembered the last time he saw Celia Phantomhive, some four or five years ago. She was fourteen then and a very lovely girl with that striking colouring of hers and the dark intelligence in her gaze. But now, when she was fully grown…

She was breathtaking.

And it wasn't just her appearance – although she did look exquisite in the midnight gown of silk and lace – but her whole bearing. She carried herself with even more confidence than she had before, with her back straight, her head high and an oppressive aura that simply demanded obedience and compliance. The dress flared around her, looking like the darkest shadows dancing around her pale flesh and she drew eye and attention of every person, every haughty aristocrat and measly servant in the great ballroom with her mere presence.

He took a step towards her, but was quickly swept away by the crowd that huddled around her, unable to break free and approach her.

The whole night was a torture after that.

She mingled. She talked. She danced. She behaved like any young lady of her station was supposed to despite her rumoured distaste for all social functions, no matter what kind.

She did not look at him even once.

It stung his pride, he was willing to admit, if only to himself in his own head. Richard was aware that he was not the richest man in the room, that he was not the heir of his family or even the second son. He was the fourth child of a minor lord with more barren land than money and utterly worthless in the eyes of the most people in this ballroom. But, nevertheless, he was charming. He had good looks inherited from his mother, her pale hair and grey eyes, and he knew how to twist his words, how to subtly flatter someone until they were red in the face, how to aim his insults and disguise them between polite words and friendly greetings, smiling as he verbally poked and prodded and twisted until people did exactly what he wanted, unaware of the manipulation. And he was a good actor, charismatic enough to get away with it.

Her deliberate avoidance… offended him.

And it was deliberate, he could tell. She circled around the room, exchanging greeting and words and polite gestures, avoiding his little corner like one would the hornets' nest. She did not look in his direction, did not glance at him once, while she scanned the entirety of the room, for threats or friendly faces, he did not know. She avoided eye-contact, refused to acknowledge him, refused to return his attention, and she did it expertly, almost inconspicuously.

But he noticed.

And he snapped.

Richard straightened his spine, squared his shoulders and strode away from his shadowed corner. The crowd was thick, but not as impenetrable as before, and he was light on his feet. He danced around men and women dressed in colourful silks and velvets, wearing the glittering jewels worth more than his whole house, but did not spare them a single glance. His eyes were trained on the black-haired Countess chatting amiably with a younger son of a fairly affluent Duke, her ever-present butler hovering behind her right shoulder.

The nobleman was the first one to notice him. He paled.

"R-Richard," his words came as a frightened stutter, and Richard smiled, going through every little piece of dirt he knew about the little lord in his mind. "It is nice to see you." His pale face said otherwise.

Celia Phantomhive turned around as soon as she heard someone approach her from behind, and Richard had to fight to regulate his breathing as she trained her magnificent sapphire eye on him for the first time this night.

"Likewise, William," he nodded towards the other man. "You look much healthier than the last time I saw you. You are feeling better, I hope?" The question was seemingly innocent from outside perspective, but William looked like all the blood fled his face, and Richard knew that he would excuse himself from conversation soon enough.

After all, the last time they met, the other man was so high on opium that he had mistaken his horse for his mother. There was no chance that he would risk compromising information like that coming up in a casual conversation.

William practically ran off only a few seconds later.

Richard turned towards the woman at his side, ignoring her butler for the time being. She had been watching the proceedings with an amusement written clearly across her face, and he felt slight satisfaction curling in his chest at the thought of already pleasing her.

He bowed courteously. "It is a pleasure to see you after all this time, Lady Phantomhive. I do not know if you remember, but my name is Richard Lovelace. We met five years ago, I believe."

She inclined her head. "I do remember. We had a lovely conversation about politics that was hard to forget," she said and offered her hand in greeting. Richard took the pale appendage almost greedily, brushing a kiss across her knuckles, capturing her gaze with his grey eyes. She did not blush, like all the other women had done before, and it sent a thrill of exhilaration down his spine.

He did so love a challenge.

"I clearly recall being impressed by your opinions on our relations with colonies," he admitted truthfully. "I would love to continue our discussion." He offered her a hand.

"You flatter me," Celia refused the compliment, but accepted his hand as he led her toward the garden and solitude. The butler trailed after them.

The next half an hour were… informative. Lady Phantomhive was nothing like a woman was supposed to be. She was intelligent and opinionated and he did not for a moment believe that 'meek' even existed in her dictionary. She skilfully countered his every argument, and Richard could feel his admiration for her rise with every moment he spent in her presence. He did not notice the other people in the gardens, hoping for fresh air. He did not notice the butler's cold stares, nor the satisfied edge in Celia's smile.

He was… well, smitten would be the right word, he supposed.

He glared at the butler when he dared to interrupt. "My lady, it's getting quite late. I believe it is time for you to retire."

Lady Phantomhive glanced at her butler with unreadable look in her eyes, but still full of meaning. "Of course, Sebastian. We wouldn't want the servants to worry." She turned towards Richard once again and inclined her head. "It was a pleasure talking to you. I hope we will do it again soon."

He had to force down the urge to grab her arm and force her to stay. It was harder than it was supposed to be. "May I join you tomorrow at the teatime, my lady?"

She seemed reluctant for some reason, faltering in her steps towards the door. Richard noticed the butler shooting him a look filled with barely hidden hostility as he leaned down towards the woman and whispered, "He would be a very good push, my lady."

The words were vague, but they obviously had some secret meaning to the two of them, because the Countess suddenly focused her whole attention on him, observing him from head to toe in a scandalously indecent manner. There was something dark in her eyes now, something cold and dangerous and he didn't dare to look more closely. He felt the thrill from that gaze trailing down his spine and fought not to shudder.

Eventually, she nodded. "I would be pleased to see you tomorrow, then," she offered abruptly, before leaving.

Richard smiled.

…

He was let into the Manor by the tall butler, who bowed politely as he took his coat. Richard was just taking a step forwards, turning his back to the other man, when he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head.

And then only blackness.

…

When he came to consciousness, his vision was blurred, white spots dancing in front of his eyes, while his head was aching something fierce. He allowed himself a second to close his eyes and concentrate on stifling the sudden dizziness that came with every movement of his head, before he blinked and focused on his surroundings.

He was shackled to a heavy, metal chair in some kind of basement, judging by the walls of rough stone and signs of moisture in the corners. He tried out his bonds, but the metal was seemingly new, without any signs of weak spots or rust. Even his legs were safely secured, and Richard may have felt flattered, if his position wasn't so precarious.

He had been kidnapped.

How could this happen?! The Phantomhive Manor was one of the most secure building in the Isles; it had to be with the suspicious activities of its owner in the London Underworld. He had heard about few attacks and attempts at assassination, but they had clearly been completely unsuccessful considering he had seen Lady Phantomhive just yesterday, so obviously the defences were up to a par. More then likely, it was an inside job, but…

An inside job…

That god-damned butler!

He was standing right behind him! Richard would have heard if he were taken out first and he was hit at the back of his head, meaning…

That god-damned butler!

And Celia, what happened to Celia? All the rumours talked about the butler's loyalty to the lady, about their uncommonly close relationship, but what if he deceived her too?! What if she was locked somewhere down here, alone and cold and frightened? He could not even imagine how mentally scarring the experience like this would be for a young woman, no matter how stoic and unusual she may be.

He stiffened when he heard the footsteps outside his door.

He needed a plan for escape. Maybe if he distracted them enough. If he started talking right at the beginning, maybe they will became sloppy. He needed to find Celia, he needed to rescue her, fast.

He heard the click of the lock and faint creaking of the hinges as the doors opened.

"Who are you? What do you want? Do you even know who I am? I warn you, there are people who..." he started, but hastily cut himself off when the faint rustle of the skirts drew his attention towards the smaller figure trailing after the tall butler. He felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest.

So that was what the betrayal feels like…

Celia Phantomhive looked down at him, face impassive, dressed in a much simpler gown than last night, but still stunning as always.

She nodded at him cordially. "Hello, Richard. I hope you are comfortable."

He forced himself not to gape like an idiot, no matter his already undignified position. "Why?" he breathed out eventually.

Surprisingly, the butler was the one to answer him. "Young Mistress needs one more push, just one little thing to achieve something very important." The look he was graced with was that of a predator observing its prey and it did not belong to a human face, "You are that push."

He glanced desperately at the only woman in the small room, hoping with all his heart that this was all some kind of game she played for her own sick amusement. She was famous for that, after all.

A sole sapphire orb gazed at him from composed face, and there was something cold and cutting glittering in there, like the shards of ice. Richard started sweating.

Celia held out her hand imperiously, palm up. "Sebastian, the knife."

"Yes, my lady," the butler said, and Richard watched with unconcealed horror as he retrieved a long, thin and undeniably sharp knife from seemingly nowhere. He placed it on her palm, brushing his long finger against her pale flesh. The gesture, usually sweet and quick, somehow managed to appear incredibly possessive and coupled with the unreadable, but heavy look directed at the black-haired woman, it got Richard thinking.

He remembered the brief rumours about illicit affair between those two, but surely it cannot be true! Celia was lady of high station and the man was just a butler! She wouldn't –

Well, he never thought she would kidnap him either.

Something clenched in his gut.

"How long will it take?" she asked, observing him in a way that reminded him eerily of a cat looking at its next meal.

The butler hummed thoughtfully. "Half an hour should do, I believe."

Richard finally found his voice again. "Half an hour of what?" he asked, although he suspected that he knew already. Lady Phantomhive stalked towards him, almost gliding in a way that she wasn't able just a few years ago. It was incredibly sensual even in the situation like this and he forced down a gulp.

She smiled down at him, but only a fool would think that it was a thing of joy. "This," she said and swiped her knife in a flash of silver.

It turned out that Lady Celia Phantomhive was very, very good with that knife of hers.

She cut precisely, efficiently, only deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill. She alternated the lengths of the cuts, the depth, even the timing between the swipes. He did not have any time to steel himself, to prepare, he did not know when to. She was compositely unpredictable and it was what hurt him most.

But what horrified him the to the highest degree was not the pain or the anticipation of it. What horrified him, truly and utterly scared him was that she enjoyed it all.

He could see it between screams and pleas and shudders that wrecked his body, her pupils were blown wide, her breath quick and heavy and her eye was drawn to the flowing, crimson blood, her pink tongue coming out to lick her lips.

The butler was not any better. He was pressed firmly at the woman's back, his long arm snaked possessively around her waist as he looked from across her shoulder. His gaze had not left Richard's broken form, not once in the last half an hour, and his eyes glowed bright fuchsia.

He was not human. Richard was sure of it.

He whimpered again as the cold steel pressed against the wound on his chest.

"It is time, my lady," Sebastian said, the first words he had spoken since this nightmare had started.

Celia straightened from her crouched position above Richard and offered the knife to the butler, slick with red blood. "Very well. Do what you must."

"Yes, my lady," the butler answered, and, to Richard's astonishment, cut himself deeply across his wrist. "You should remove your eye-patch, my lady."

She did. Richard expected empty socket or maybe some ugly, disfiguring scar, but what he saw was perfectly healthy eye, as beautiful in colour as the other one, but…

There was a pentagram in her eye.

Richard's mind, muddled by pain and terror and blood, worked slowly, but he glanced at the butler and then at the lady and something clicked, all the puzzle pieces falling into their place. A fear like no other gripped his heart.

Not human, the butler was not human. He was a demon.

Richard wanted to laugh hysterically, but the ache in every part of his body convinced him that it would be a very bad, very painful idea.

The demon offered his wrist to the woman and the prisoner watched in horror as her lips latched on the bloody wound and she started to suck while the butler gently cradled her head in his other hand. It was utterly repulsing sight, so undeniably, intrinsically wrong, that he could feel nausea well up inside him, but he was simply unable to look away.

After what felt like minutes, hours, but has most likely been only seconds, they stopped, Celia lifting her head, her tongue darting out to lick the crimson liquid from the corner of her mouth, while the butler offered her the knife again. "Finish it."

She accepted it, striding closer towards Richard's chair and placing the sharp edge against his vulnerable throat. Richard almost cried in relief. It is over, finally!

The last thing Richard Lovelace saw before his throat was slit mercilessly was a beautiful young woman with dark hair and sapphire eyes bleeding into gem-like ruby red, and her butler, a demon, pressed against her, his lips attached firmly to her long, pale neck.

The death was relief to him.


End file.
